


If You Like to Gamble, I Tell You I'm Your Man

by Eugara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, M/M, Romance, Top Sam, re-established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:51:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 6.  Sam's got his soul back and is aching for his brother.  But how is he supposed to pick up where they left off, when a year has passed for only one of them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Like to Gamble, I Tell You I'm Your Man

“Two kings in your jacket pocket. Something tucked into your boot, most likely a face card. And an…ace up your sleeve? Really, Dean?” Sam tosses his brother a long-suffering look and takes a pull from the bottle of Jack Daniels in his lap. “Are you _going_ for total cliché, or does that kind of shit just happen to you?” 

Dean scratches the bridge of his nose with a thumb. “How’d you know?”

Sam rolls his eyes and gestures at his brother’s feet. “You’re wearing one shoe, moron. Obviously there’s something in there. Might as well be written on your forehead.”

Dean sucks the Cheetos dust off of his fingers as he considers, then concedes the point. “The kings?”

“I had trip kings the last hand, and then I shuffled before this one. Not too hard to realize they’d mysteriously disappeared.” He wiggles his fingers sarcastically and Dean chuckles under his breath. “Plus it’s a million degrees in here and you’re still wearing your jacket. Figured that was the most convenient spot for them.” Sam takes another shot of whiskey and tries his hardest not to look _too_ proud of himself.

“Okay, smart guy. What about the ace?”

Sam laughs. “I can see it, dude.” He leans forward and snatches the card out of his brother’s sleeve. “You’re a walking stereotype, Dean." 

“Your face is a walking stereotype.” Dean reluctantly hands over the rest of his stolen cards and shrugs out of his jacket. “You missed the other ace in my collar, by the way.”

“You have a problem.”

Dean scoffs and grabs the bottle from Sam. “What about you, David Blaine?” He gestures vaguely in Sam’s direction. “How many cards are you hiding down your pants?”

Sam snorts. “I don’t feel the compulsive urge to cheat, unlike _some_ people I can name.” He throws on a faux-sincere face. “I dunno, Dean, maybe it’s an impulse-control thing.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a real Cincinnati Kid.” Dean sets the bottle of whiskey to the side and out of his way, deceptively easygoing, then abruptly snaps forward to latch onto Sam’s shirt.

“What? Dean! Get off!” Sam ineffectively shoves at his brother’s uncompromising mass. It’s like trying to move a very stubborn mountain. 

“A-ha!” Dean pulls back, along with the pair of queens Sam had tucked into his sleeve. “Couple of ladies, huh?” He waves them belligerently under Sam’s nose. “What’s going on Mr. ‘I Don’t Cheat’, trying for a really pathetic threesome?”

Sam’s lips twitch into a guilty smile and he knocks the cards out of his brother’s hands. “Alright fine, shut up.” He plucks a king of his own out of his shirt pocket. “You missed one.”

“And it’s the suicide king too.” Dean mock sighs and yanks the card away from Sam. “Guess you can’t trust anyone these days.”

Sam leans back against the bed and surveys the pot between them. “So…who wins the four dollars and thirty-five cents?” He gingerly lifts out a crumpled piece of torn paper. “And the coupon for one hour of remote privileges?” They’d been playing this game for almost as many years as they’d been playing poker itself. If either of them was ever able to prove that the other was cheating, they automatically won the round. But they were both usually much sneakier about it, apparently the Jack was having a pretty profound effect.

Dean shrugs and starts pulling off his over shirt. “Not like it really matters. It’s all just _our_ money anyway.”

Sam pouts over the scribbled coupon in his hand. “What about the TV choice?” 

“Whatever. I let you watch your stupid documentaries all the time.” Dean flings his shirt onto the closest bed. “Now stop cheating.”

“ _You_ stop cheating.” 

His brother just rolls his eyes and goes for the button on his pants.

“Uh…Dean?” Sam freezes like a rabbit who’s just strolled into a hawk’s dinner party. Or…hopped, probably. Rabbits hop. His prefrontal cortex isn’t functioning at full capacity in the wake of Dean’s impromptu strip show. “What are you doing?”

Dean tugs his jeans down his legs, stopping to unlace his remaining boot, then tosses them to the side as well. “I trust you about as far as I can throw you, and if you’re smart, you feel the same.” He leans forward and starts working on the buttons of Sam’s shirt. “Tees and boxers. You wanna continue playing, them’s the rules.”

Sam swallows and debates with himself for a moment of agonizing indecision. Dean’s close. He’s close enough that his breath is ghosting over Sam’s neck as his strong, capable fingers tug at Sam’s chest. And Sam can smell him. Shampoo and _Dean_ and leather. Wait…not leather. Where is Dean’s jacket? He hasn’t seen it since a couple of days ago. — _Over a year ago. It’s been a year and a half for Dean.—_  Sam is yanked from his musings when Dean gets the first button undone. And that’s the problem. As nice as it is having Dean this close, he’s also undoing Sam’s shirt like he’s five years old. Like he used to back when he’d help Sam get dressed for school and shove him out the door with a homemade lunch clutched in his hand and a slapdash ThunderCats doodle scrawled on the bag. It’s humiliating and Sam’s stubbornness wins out. “I can unbutton my own fucking shirt, Dean. Jesus.”

Dean raises his hands in surrender and backs away, but he’s trying to contain an amused grin the entire time. He grabs the neglected bottle of whiskey by the neck and takes a swig. “Socks too.” 

Sam raises an eyebrow as he tosses his shirt away and starts on his jeans. “You think I’m gonna be able to hide something in my sock?”

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t be impressed,” Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “I’m just saying it’s not allowed.” Dean watches as Sam discards the rest of his prohibited clothing, then tips his empty Cheetos bag into his mouth to catch the leftover orange dust. Charming.

Sam finishes disrobing and spreads his arms. “That good enough? Can we move on?”

Dean simply smiles in response and shuffles the deck. Then he deals out the cards between them and they start a new _(clean)_ game. They get about five seconds in before Sam folds on the flop. Dean glances at the showing cards, an eight, a nine, and a jack, then back up to Sam. “Seriously? Chase it.” Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean grabs at the mucked cards in front of his brother. “Whaddya got, a queen?”

“Dean! Quit it!” Sam smacks Dean’s hands away, and then again as he tries for a feint. “You’re not supposed to look, you fucking cheater.” He laughs and pegs Dean with his mostly empty bag of Funyuns once his brother finally manages to get his hands on Sam’s cards. “Fuck off!”

Dean looks up at Sam through his lashes and quirks his lips back to reveal the edge of one sharp canine. “Why don’t you live a little, Sammy?” Sam doesn’t make another grab for his cards, so Dean flips them to reveal a queen and a three, unsuited. He leans back and crows at having guessed correctly, and the self-impressed look on his face is largely insufferable. “Queen. Knew it.” Dean takes a moment he doesn’t need to crack his knuckles with an exaggerated stretch, and then deals the turn. Jack of Diamonds.

Sam laces his hands together over his abdomen, then settles back with a smirk and a sanctimonious sigh. “See? You’re not supposed to chase inside straights, Dean. It’s a numbers game. Y’know, odds?” He chews at a hangnail and pointedly raises his eyebrows at his brother. “ _Math_.”

Dean scoffs and tips back another swallow of Jack. “You don’t play the _odds_ , Sam. You play the other dude.” He chases away the lingering droplets with a sweep of his tongue and tilts the bottle at Sam’s face. “And I gotta tell you, dude, you suck."

Sam holds back an affronted noise and schools his expression into one of perfected disinterest. The one he knows irritates the crap out of his brother. “Pretty sure I saved your ass a time or two.”

“Okay, _fine_. Luck’s part of it too.”

Sam lets out a disbelieving laugh and jerks forward to snatch the bottle away from Dean. “Not what I meant, asshat.” Dean absent-mindedly scratches at the stubble on the side of his face and fights back a smile at Sam’s indignity. He looks exactly the same and completely different from the last time Sam’s seen him, and Sam has to put the whiskey-soaked rim to his lips before he says something stupid.

Dean leans back on one of his hands and casually flips over the river. Ten of Hearts. Goddammit. If Sam thought Dean was unbearable before, the shit-eating grin currently stretching across his face is ten times worse. “What did I tell you, Sammy?” He flicks the winning card at Sam’s head. “You gotta chase what you want.”

Sam rubs the back of a knuckle over his eye, then sighs as he admits defeat. Or victory, actually. “Fine. You’re right.” He tips his imaginary top hat to his brother, then mimes settling it back into its invisible spot on top of his head. “Congratulations, I win. I hope you’re very proud of yourself.”

Dean tilts his head back and makes an irritating buzzer noise. “Actually,” he smirks, “I still win.” He flings both of his cards at Sam’s chest. “Full house. Jacks and eights.”

“What? Are you fucking serious?” 

Dean just spreads his hands and throws him a self-satisfied grin.

Sam snorts and pushes himself upright. “Are you actually fucking serious?” Dean refuses to answer with anything other than that infuriating smile, so Sam lurches forward and shoves him back onto the mysteriously splotched carpet. “Then what was the point of all that?”

Dean laughs and flinches away from the whiskey Sam’s trying to pour over his brother’s face. “Teachable lesson, Sammy.”

“Fuck you, teachable lesson.” Sam finally manages to slosh the amber liquid onto Dean’s skin, but he simply accepts defeat and opens his mouth so it slides past his lips. Sam refuses to lose this way, so he jabs his fingers into Dean’s side until he sputters and coughs most of the alcohol back out onto his chin and neck. Dean is choking, just a little bit, but mostly he’s still laughing and Sam suddenly wants to kiss him. His lips are soaked in sour mash and he smells like a distillery and Sam really wants to taste it. Suck the whiskey off of his brother’s skin until he tastes like Dean again. …But he’s not sure if it’s allowed. 

For Sam, it’s only been a little over a week since Dean had grabbed his face and kissed him goodbye in that shitty motel room on the way to Detroit. He had stared up at Sam with tears in his eyes and quietly said, “D’you wanna drive this time?” Then he’d let out a painful laugh. “I know it’s a pretty shitty consolation prize as far as final requests go, but…”. And Dean had stared at his feet, embarrassed and grieving, and Sam had surged forward, kissing Dean breathless and pressing him into the mattress and savoring every moment of his last night on Earth with his brother. But for Dean, that had been a lifetime ago. And Cas had told Sam all about Lisa. Dean had done exactly what Sam had asked and that was great. It’s amazing. It really proves that Dean deserves to have something and someone good in his life. 

It hurts like a bitch.

Sam stares down at Dean’s lips for a few more glazed-over seconds. Their bare legs are tangled and their hips are locked together and he can feel Dean’s heart beating just under his own. All Sam has to do is lower himself a few inches and his lips could slot against his brother’s, soft and wet and perfect. Like back when it was easy. Back, before. Before everything. Before Hell and angels and the ‘capital A’ _Apocalypse_. When Sam’s feelings were actually wanted, and welcomed. Instead of those next two years of hurt and betrayal and distance. And what did it even get them? Ages of loneliness and anger and misery before one of them had to go and fucking die.  _Again_. And one night of bitter apologies and rushed reconciliation wasn’t even close to making up for all the rest of it. And Sam knows it was his fault. He isn’t blaming Dean. It was _his_ fault, all of it. But…Sam is in love with his brother. He’s sick and he’s twisted and he’s fucked up in the head. And he’s recklessly, _hopelessly_ in love with his brother. And he doesn’t want to push anything off anymore because who knows how long it’ll be before some other angelic or demonic or fucking Mother-of-All fireball comes crashing down on their heads? Dean’s eyes are hooded and his mouth is beautiful and he’s closed-off and he’s inconsiderate and he’s dangerous, and Sam wants him anyway. 

…But Dean has Lisa now.  _Had_ Lisa. Has Lisa?

Sam steals one more selfish moment to soak in the warmth and the strength of the body underneath him, and then pulls away to lean back against the bed. Back where he was sitting before. Where he _should_ be sitting. Where a brother would sit. And Dean looks…disappointed. Maybe? More likely, it’s just one of Sam’s desperate hopes sparking out of his brain and tinting his gaze. He’s just seeing what he wants to see. Imagining that his brother wants to pick up right where Sam left off.

And if it _is_ disappointment, Dean covers admirably, wiping a hand over his sticky face and looking amused. “Poker. Who knew it could get so _wet?”_

Sam smiles placidly at his brother’s obligatory innuendo, and remembers the look in Dean’s eye when Sam had first suggested they play a round. They had booked it away from Bobby’s as fast as they could. Bobby was still uncomfortable _(afraid)_ around Sam— _b_ _ecause Sam had tried to kill him, he’d tried to kill Bobby, he’d tried to **kill** him—_ so they’d hoofed it to the nearest motel, and Dean kept looking at Sam like he’d never seen him before. Sam had apologized for bumping into a middle-aged man in the parking lot and Dean had beamed from ear-to-ear for the next hour. Sam had smiled at a kid playing ball outside and Dean had leaned in and massaged the back of his neck. Sam had offered to play some poker to pass the time, like they always did, nothing special, and Dean had looked like he was about to fucking cry. 

“Did we not do this? I mean, before, when I was…” Sam aborts a poorly thought-out gesture and drops his hand back onto his stomach. How did you imply ‘soulless’ with just your hands anyway? As if their lives weren’t weird enough when they only had the apocalypse to deal with.

Dean gives him an inscrutable look, and Sam is suddenly and painfully jarred by the fact that he doesn’t understand what it means. The last time Sam was unable to read his brother was right after Stanford. It had been a hair over three years of not seeing Dean in person, nearly two years of not speaking to him at all, and it’d felt like all of Sam’s mental cards had gotten shuffled around. There were still fifty-two in the deck, but it was like someone had slipped in a few novelty brands alongside all the Bicycles until Sam couldn’t tell which one was which. Of course, there were a few old classics that had made it through. Dean squinting his eyes and glancing to the left was still the Six of Clubs, which meant that Dean was nervous about a hunt but didn’t want to worry Sam. Dean flipping a quarter over his knuckles was the Two of Diamonds, which meant that he was feeling impressive and planned on hustling some unlucky SOB out of his rent money. And Dean’s eyes crinkling at the corners was the Ace of Spades. Sam’s favorite. It meant that his brother was happy. Honestly happy.  

But after all that time apart, Dean had the audacity to start slipping in some new cards. And Sam couldn’t keep up. Dean would sometimes run a thumb down the side of his cell phone and get a faraway look in his eye. And Sam couldn’t figure that one out at all until they had run into Cassie. Sometimes he would smile and thump Sam on the shoulder, and then his entire face would turn gray and haunted. Sam eventually realized that one was Dean being happy about having his brother back and feeling subsequently guilty because it meant that Dad was missing. And sometimes… Sometimes Dean would bore a hole into Sam with his gaze and unconsciously run his tongue over his bottom lip. It took Sam a very long time to finally understand what that one was about. 

He can still remember the jolt of… _something_ that coursed through him when he had first asked Dean about being on a solo hunt. Dean had said, “I’m twenty-six, dude.” Like it was a stupid question. Like Sam should have known better. And it wasn’t like Sam was unaware of the fact that time had passed. Of course it had. Sam himself was ages away from the awkward teenager he’d been when he left. But the reminder, the verbal confirmation of their separation had felt like a nail in the coffin of their relationship. Sam left and Dean lived for three whole years without him. That was the first time Sam had realized that he didn’t know everything about his brother anymore. And now, Sam had been gone for a day, and a year and a half had passed. Dean had a life for eighteen months. Another forfeited stretch of time that Sam would never get back, not without shattering the only thing keeping his brain in one piece. Months of his brother’s life that didn’t belong to him. It burns like acid eating through the lining of his gut.

“No.” Dean clears his throat and twists the cap back onto the bottle. “We never, uh—” He glances back up at Sam and sighs. “He wasn’t really a card game kinda guy.”

Sam cringes at the look on his brother’s face. Cas had given him the CliffsNotes version of the horror show his body had put on without him at the helm, but he doesn’t know any of the nuances. “What was I like?”

“Like fucking Slater from Heathers.”

Sam lets out a quiet almost-laugh. “I played a lot of croquet?”

“Don’t, Sam.” Dean’s expression is pinched and he’s inattentively messing with the hem of his t-shirt. He stays quiet for a long moment, cherry-picking his words. “He had no emotions. None. Not even—” Dean stills his hand but doesn’t look at Sam’s face. “He’d just as soon murder a person as look at them. I’m pretty sure he _did_ murder a few that we’ll never know about. I guess I was too—I dunno— _useful_ to kill or something.”

It’s not funny anymore. “ _Jesus Christ_ , Dean.”

“Alright. Are we done?” Dean brushes the imaginary dust off of his knees and pushes himself to his feet. “And that concludes this portion of touchy-feely theater. Come again next year.” He grabs both of their empty chip bags and stuffs them into the tiny wastebasket.

“Dean, stop.” Sam lugs himself up off the floor and the room cants a little to the side, the alcohol sinking it’s teeth into the slight dip in blood pressure. He stumbles for a moment, then gets his bearings. “Dean, I’m sorry. I would never—” Sam is forced to break off there, because apparently he _would_. He almost _did_. He finishes with a feeble, “I’m so sorry…” It’s abhorrently inadequate, but it’s the best Sam can do at the moment.

Dean stops arbitrarily moving things around, and grudgingly turns around to face him. “It wasn’t you, Sam.”

Sam fiddles with the buckle on his watchband so that he doesn’t have to look into his brother’s disappointed eyes. “It kinda was.”

“ _No_ , it wasn’t!” Dean lets out a sharp, angry breath and balls his hands into fists. “And we wouldn’t even be _having_ this damn conversation if Cas hadn’t decided to go full WikiLeaks on you.” 

“What’s WikiLeaks?”

Dean makes a noise so caustic that Sam’s surprised the floor doesn’t melt away underneath them. “It’s a…” He pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s got a headache. “Um, there was this Australian guy who…uh, he released this info and—” A strangled sound claws out of Dean’s throat and he slices his hand through the air. “Look, does it really fucking matter right now?” He looks up at Sam with wet, bottle-green eyes. “It wasn’t you, Sammy. Could you just…trust me on this?  _Please?”_

Sam rubs at the skin of his wrist and bites at his lip. “But how can you know? Even _I’m_ not so sure.”

Dean pauses, then reaches out to trail a thumb down the line of Sam’s arm. His voice is eerily level. “He wanted to blast a hole through the skull of a mother and her kid. ‘Cause they were in the way of my shot. That something you would do?" 

Sam blanches. “ _No_. God, no.”

“He let me get turned into a fucking vamp, and then tossed me into a nest to get some info.  _That_ something you would do?”

Sam is having a hard time breathing. Cas had skimmed over all the important stuff, but hearing it from the horse’s mouth… Hearing his brother calmly talk about how Sam had almost killed him… It was more painful than he could have imagined. “ _Never_.” The word comes out in a rough whisper and Sam’s pretty sure his voice has abandoned him. It’s more than he deserves.

“He tried to murder Bobby.” Sam hangs his head in guilt, and Dean brings his hand up to brush Sam’s cheek. “He didn’t even sleep, Sammy. He was barely human. And I don’t care if it was your brain, or your stupid body. It wasn’t _you_.”

Sam buries his face in Dean’s neck at the unwarranted clemency. He doesn’t deserve it, not one bit, but he’ll take it like the selfish bastard he is. Sam squeezes tight and his brother’s arms come up to rub at his back. This is okay. Brothers do this. “Were you happy?” he mumbles into Dean’s neck. “With Lisa?” Dean chuckles at the change in subject, but doesn’t say anything. And Sam can’t put words to the real question, the one they both know he’s actually asking. Because Sam’s not sure he honestly wants to hear the answer to that one.

Sam pulls back to gauge his brother’s reaction to find that Dean is giving him another one of those goddamn inscrutable looks. Sam’s gonna figure out what all these new cards mean even if he has to tie Dean down to a chair and grill him. His brother pauses for a long time, which is good, because it means he’s actually thinking about the answer instead of just denying any and all emotion right off the bat. Maybe this last year without Sam changed him for the better. Sam’s not sure how he feels about that. 

“No.” Dean rubs a hand over his mouth. “No, I don’t think so. Not really.” He breaks off and looks away with a defeated smile. “Lisa was great. Ben too. They were perfect and they were everything I ever imagined. My little Stepford dream life. Just what you wanted, Sammy. Apple pie, through and through.” Dean’s smile falters and drops away. “But you were in Hell. I drank like a fish and I spent most of my time studying the fucking Necronomicon.” He lets out a bitter laugh and Sam brings a hand up to circle the swell of his brother’s bicep. So that he can feel the muscle contract under his fingers. “How could I possibly be happy when you were in Hell?" 

Sam moves his other hand to completely encompass Dean’s upper arm, and Dean gives him a weird look, but doesn’t press it. Sam stares at his fingers, absent-mindedly rubbing his thumbs back and forth. “You could—” He collects himself and starts again. “I’m here now. You don’t have to worry about me anymore. I bet you could go and see her.”

Dean laughs and trails the back of his knuckles down Sam’s side. “You’ve got a magic wall in your head that could split open any second and fly you right over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” he grins. “I’m pretty sure worrying about you is all I’m gonna do.”

Sam shakes his head, but doesn’t release Dean’s arm. “No. I meant that I’m not in Hell. And I’m not gonna go off like I did before, I promise. You could still have that—I mean, we have to go after this Mother bitch—but Cas said we were hunting before when you guys were together, so…”

Dean yanks at his arm, but Sam won’t let go. Or meet his brother’s eyes. “Sam—c’mon.” He sighs. “Look, it’s over now. I did something stupid and we… We’re done. I already told you, it didn’t work out.” Dean covers Sam’s hand with his own and curls around Sam’s fingers, tugging him away from his arm. “And I _know_ you’re not gonna go off like he did, ‘cause I’d punch your fucking lights out.” He crushes Sam’s fingers in his, and when he speaks, it’s mostly to himself. “A whole goddamn year, Sam.”

Sam knows that however altruistic his brother may seem to be about this whole ‘soulless you isn’t really you’ situation, he’s still pretty pissed. And Sam is already beating himself up enough for the both of them, so instead he just gets it together and quietly asks, “Can I kiss you?”

Dean laughs at him and squeezes his fingers again, gentler this time. “Baby, for a genius, you’re really fucking stupid sometimes.” Sam can see the crinkles at the edges of his eyes. Ace of Spades. “What did you think we were doing here?”

Sam frowns. “Poker?”

Dean stares at him like he’s an idiot. “Yeah, Sam. I always play strip poker with random dudes in my motel room.”

Oh.  _Oh_. Sam feels a swell of emotions rise in his chest. And how could he have ever lived without them? Why did he— _how did he_ —stick by Dean when he didn’t love him? What did it feel like when he didn’t have this oppressive surge of _wantloveneed_ threatening to suffocate him at all times? Sam smiles and slides his unoccupied thumb under the hem of Dean’s t-shirt, rubbing over the skin of his hip. “Y’know, we’re pretty terrible at strip poker if this is as far as we got.”

Dean gives him a wicked look and drags Sam down to his level, just a finger's breadth from his mouth. “Yeah.” The whisper breezes over Sam’s lips. “We should probably work on that.” Then Dean presses forward the rest of the way, and they’re _finally_ kissing. 

It’s been a week. It’s been a year. And Sam still feels like he always does. Like he’s not whole, like he’s not _alive_ unless he’s sharing Dean’s space. Unless he’s breathing the same air. He pours his soul— _he has a soul now to pour_ —into the kiss and Dean’s breath hitches. He lets out a broken sound and cups Sam’s face, and they both taste like whiskey and Sam’s head starts spinning from something he’s pretty sure isn’t the booze. Dean sucks at his lips and threads his hands through Sam’s hair, which is shorter now because soulless him had apparently decided that he wanted layers. It’s pretty much the most ridiculous thing Sam can even think of and he laughs into Dean’s mouth.

“What?” Dean is grinning and his pupils are swollen, almost entirely black. He presses another kiss to the side of Sam’s mouth. “What’s so funny?”

Sam scrunches up his nose and takes a breath. “Am I…a douchebag?”

Dean looks at Sam for a moment, and then completely loses it. Which makes sense. Sam couldn’t have given him better ammo if he’d tried. He cracks up for a few seconds, then closes his eyes and presses his face into Sam’s neck, releasing the last of the snickers into his skin. He lets out an amused hum and reaches down to palm Sam’s erection. “Only sometimes, kiddo. Only sometimes.”

Sam softens at the unexpected reprieve and tilts his head down for another kiss. Dean obliges without hesitation, and Sam uses the opportunity to dig his fingers into the muscular expanse of his brother’s back. He drags a hand down the sinuous curve of Dean’s spine to clutch at his ass, and when Dean coaxes Sam’s tongue into his mouth, Sam slams their hips together. Dean groans against his lips and Sam breaks away for a godawful moment so that he can rip his brother’s shirt off. As soon as the offensive material is out of the way— _Dean should never wear clothes again, it’s a goddamn sin against humanity is what it is—_ Sam sinks his teeth into the skin of his chest. He clamps down and sucks until a red mark blooms over Dean’s heart. Dean brings a hand up to cradle the back of Sam’s head, and Sam keeps biting until he can taste the metallic sting of copper. 

He sweeps his tongue over the angry brand and Dean hisses at the wet rasp over his broken skin. “Whoa. Easy there, tiger.” He tugs Sam’s head back to survey the damage, then chuckles. “ _Damn_.”

Sam growls and strains against Dean’s hand, needing more contact. “Sorry, couldn’t help it.” 

“Well, I _am_ very handsome. Some would say dashing.”

Sam rolls his eyes at his brother’s stupid grin. “Some would say pathological egomaniacal narcissist.”

“Wow. Those are some ten dollar words, Sammy.” Dean releases his hold on Sam’s hair to graze over his brother’s bottom lip. “You really shouldn’t go blowing your whole wad on just one sentence like that.”

Sam nips at the pad of his brother’s thumb and gives Dean his best leer. It hasn’t seen as much action as Dean’s has, but it gets the job done. “You’re gonna blow _your_ wad.”

Dean chuckles darkly. “That a promise?”

Sam hums an assent and presses a kiss to his brother’s finger before leaning away and tugging off his own shirt. He moves to lean back in, then frowns. Because Dean’s appreciative ogling is just a tad more appreciative than usual. Which is a little weird. Sam glances down at himself and freezes.  _Oh_. 

His body is…different. It’s not a huge change—a life on the run and chasing down monsters has always left Sam in shape—but he looks…bigger. More defined. The corded, sinewy build of someone who never stopped fighting. Who never _slept_. Sam hadn’t noticed when they’d been busy with the dragons, but now… He flexes his shoulders and tries to make light of it. “Guess there’s a lot of time for working out when you don’t have to nap, huh?” Sam pastes a careless smile onto his face, but the glue won’t hold and the corners keep falling down. He forces himself to tamp down the hysteria before his brother can read it in his eyes. “It’s hot though, right?”

But Dean seems to get it anyway, because he steps up into Sam’s space and circles his wrists. “You okay?”

No. He’s not, really. Why does he keep feeling like every time he turns around, his body has found some new way to betray him? How can he feel like himself when he never is? He’s Meg, or he’s Lucifer, or he’s walking around without a soul like some murderous, sociopathic asshole. Sam shoves the panic away and snakes his arms around Dean’s lower back. He tries for seductive. “Of course I’m okay.”

Dean sighs and wiggles out of his grip, obviously not buying it. “Alright. Close your eyes.” 

Sam raises a doubtful brow, but Dean isn’t relenting, so he caves and does what his brother asks. And behind the black of his eyelids, he does feel a little calmer. Like if he can’t see it, then it’s not real. But that’s never been the case, has it? Not for once in their stupid lives. Because they both have unfortunate, _intimate_ knowledge of what likes to lurk in the dark.

He can feel Dean place a calloused hand on the back of his neck, and then Sam's being pulled into a gentle kiss. “That feel the same, Sam?” He doesn’t want to shatter the moment with stupid, clumsy words, so he just moistens his parted lips and nods. And Dean rewards him with another soft peck before mouthing down Sam’s chest and scraping his bottom teeth over his nipple. He jumps at the contact but doesn’t let out anything other than a shaky breath. Dean’s voice is dark and gravel-rough. “And that?” Sam nods again. Then there’s a muffled thump as his brother lowers himself to his knees and scrapes his rough cheek against Sam’s lower abdomen. And Sam’s dick fucking _jolts_ when Dean bites teasingly at the v-cut of his hips. “…Sammy?”

“Yeah, it—yeah. It feels the same." 

Dean presses a kiss to his hipbone. “Then it’s the same. Okay?”

Sam opens his eyes and gazes down at his brother kneeling on the creepily-stained motel carpet. He _loves_ him. God, he loves Dean so damn much they should invent a new word for it. So he nods, and holds out a hand to pull his brother to his feet. Usually, the sight of Dean on his knees sends a heated flush throughout Sam’s entire body, but it seems wrong at the moment. Sacrilegious, even. Like the thought of Dean kneeling for anyone goes against the moral fabric of the universe. 

Dean grins and tangles their fingers together. “Now, can we please have sex?”

Sam laughs and yanks his brother upright. “Well, since you asked so politely…” Dean winds his arms around his waist and pushes him toward the bed, but Sam stumbles over the half-full bottle of Jack. “Shit. One sec.”

He goes to fix it, but Dean tightens his grip and growls. “Leave it.” 

Sam struggles to speak around the insistent press of his brother’s mouth. “What if it’s broken? We’re gonna—” He cuts off, momentarily distracted by Dean latching onto his neck and walking him backwards. “We’re gonna slice up our feet in the morning.”

“I’ll _carry_ you. Would you please get on the fucking bed?” 

Sam gives up and lies back on the suspiciously streaked comforter _(matches the carpet)_ and pulls Dean down on top of him. “I’d like to see you try, old man. You’d probably throw your back out.”

Dean rolls his hips down, grinding the hard line of his cock against Sam’s. “I’m gonna throw _your_ back out, if you don’t shut up.”

Sam swallows a moan at the movement, and then brings a hand up to his brother’s cheek. “…D’you wanna drive this time?” He can see when his words register, because Dean makes an almost imperceptible gasping noise as the memory washes over him. 

“You…” Dean’s expression is completely raw for a few moments. Good. Let him be right where Sam is, they should be matched anyway. Fuck the natural passage of time. They’re supposed to be in sync. Dean’s eyes are naked and exposed for a long beat, and then he fixes Sam with a wounded smile. Ah. Sam knows that card. That’s the Queen of Hearts. It means that Dean loves him, even if he’d rather die than say it out loud. “You,” Dean whispers. “You drive.” He rolls them both over, and Sam drops a lingering kiss over his mark on his brother’s chest before moving down to completely divest them of their boxers.

Sam spreads Dean’s legs and rests his face against the inside of his thigh. “Do you have anything?” 

“…No.” Dean sighs and drops his head back. “Dammit.”

Sam chuckles. “The great Dean Winchester, unprepared for sex. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Dean lifts his head back up to fix Sam with an indignant stare. “Well, I was with a _chick_ for a year. Exclusively. Not like I’m gonna need it.”

Sam turns his face into Dean’s leg. “So, what now?” He sure as hell isn’t gonna go in dry. Not even for a spitfuck. Sam bets that was something the soulless him would’ve done. He’s planning on using that as his barometer until things feel normal again. Like, soulless him would probably kick that puppy, so Sam would make sure and _not_ do that. Not that he intended to go around kicking puppies in the first place, but the point stands. He glances up at his brother’s stupidly beautiful face. “There might be some lotion or something in the bathroom.”

Dean groans and brings a hand up to clamp down at the base of his cock. “No. That fucking sucks.” He flicks his gaze over to Sam’s bag. “You think maybe you’ve got something?”

Sam frowns into his brother’s thigh. He doesn’t want to check. If he has something, then great. But it also means that there’s a reason for it being there, and Sam’s not sure he can handle that right now. But his dick is fucking _aching_ and if he doesn’t have sex with his brother right this minute, he might find out if someone can actually die from pure want. “Sure, let’s find out. It’ll be a blast.” Dean either doesn't catch the sarcasm in his tone, or chooses to ignore it. Sam's betting on the latter. He shuffles off the bed and stubbornly ignores the way his dick jumps at the sight of Dean brazenly spread out on his back. Firm, solid planes and an expanse of pale skin flecked with caramel. God, why does his brother have to have fucking goddamn freckles? 

Sam wrenches his gaze away, because looking isn’t doing anything but making it worse, and unzips the compartment on his bag where he usually keeps his lube. His fingers run over a square edge of plastic. A condom? He supposes it could be left over from a while ago. Sam's never really been one for random bouts of casual sex, and whenever he’d needed one in the past, he’d usually just grabbed it from Dean’s bag. He takes out the packet (if it’s lubricated, they’re in luck), but it turns out to be attached to a whole line and he ends up pulling out a terrifying amount before he lets go.

“Sam?”

_Why does he have so many? How many people did he—?_

“ _Sam_.”

Sam jerks back to glance at Dean. “Sorry, just…” He turns back to his bag and tries another pouch. And…bingo. He takes one more nervous second to worry about why soulless him had lube in his bag. Was he fucking random _guys_ too? The thought is freaking Sam out, so he shoves it out of his head and moves back to his brother. 

Dean gives him a wary glance. “You all good, Sammy?” 

He nods and presses himself back between Dean’s thighs. He doesn’t want to think about anything. He doesn’t want to even _begin_ to consider some of the other things he might have been doing. Sam just wants to wrap himself up in his brother until everything else goes away. Until everything fades into the background and all he can see, hear, and think is _Dean_. He coats his fingers and spreads his brother open, surrounding himself with the way the sound gets caught in Dean’s throat and the tight, hot clench around his fingers. Dean releases an unsteady breath and Sam gets lost in the thrust of his hand and the feel of his brother’s skin against his. Fuck everything else. He can make Dean feel good, and this is all he needs. Dean’s tight, _he’s so tight_ , and Sam can’t believe that his brother is letting him do this. He can’t believe that they’re both here _to_ do this. Sam figured that once he Reverse Piked into the Box, he’d never see Dean again. And now…

He plunges his fingers in harder and jams his face into the crease of Dean’s hip. He’d killed people. Sam _knows_ that he must have. Probably innocent people. And he’d hurt countless others, present company included. But even knowing all of that, he still wouldn’t change a goddamn thing if it meant that he ended up right here, right now. Maybe not being able to remember the faces made it easier. But Sam is pretty sure he’d make the same choice anyway. He’s fucked up like that.

Dean starts babbling, little meaningless snippets of, “So good, baby,” and, “Yeah, just like that,” and Sam is wound up tighter than a spring from only the thunder rumble of his brother’s voice. He pulls his fingers out and slicks himself up with the same lube that was just inside Dean. And there’s something poetic about that, but Sam is too turned on to give the thought proper speculation. So he just lines himself up and nudges the head of his cock into the tight ring of muscle. Dean groans and shifts his hips to allow Sam in further, and Sam pushes hard and rocks down, gasping and slowly sinking into his brother. He pauses once they’re flush, the long line of Dean’s body hot and firm under his. Sam buries his head in the junction of Dean’s shoulder and breathes in.  _Dean_. Dean filling up every single one of his senses.

Dean folds Sam into his arms, steady and safe, and pulses his hips up. “Sammy.” He squeezes tighter and rocks his hips again. “I missed you. God, I missed _you_.” Then he turns his face to growl into Sam’s ear. “Don’t you ever fucking die again. Or I’ll murder you.”

Sam chokes out a laugh and drags his hips away, pulling a stuttered groan from his brother. “I’ll get right on that immortality thing.”

“Yeah, you better. Smartass.”

Sam bites at the tendon of Dean’s neck and slams back hard, his brother’s cock heavy and leaking against his stomach. He winds his arms under Dean and crushes them together, trying to keep as much skin contact as possible through the harsh thrusts. He fights past the urge to say something stupid and irrevocable, and instead just pounds into his brother. Hoping that the deeper he gets, the more permanent it will be. That Sam will be able to metaphysically string them together by sheer force of will. He wants to prove to Dean that he’s here and he’s real and he’s staying. He wants to promise, but words are pathetically insufficient. Words are worthless.  _I’ll never leave if you won’t._

Dean is rambling now, meaningless syllables falling from his lips. A litany of, “…missed you, missed you, missed you,” whispered into Sam’s hair so that the room won’t be able to hear. Their arms are still wrapped around each other, clinging and grasping, and Dean is letting out little, punched groans at every thrust.

“I’m here,” Sam whispers, just as quietly to Dean. His brother has the right idea. The room can go fuck itself, this is for their ears only. “It’s me. I’m right here.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and chokes off another hushed, “Sammy,” before throwing his head back with a deep groan. And Sam takes the sound and locks it away into the steel vault of his memory forever. It’s just for him. No one else can have it. He’s gonna pitch the key into the Pacific if he even thinks that someone’s gonna try and take it from him.

Sam crushes his mouth to his brother’s and pushes his tongue past Dean’s lips. The coil tightens and the tension is quivering low in Sam’s belly and he’s going to come, so he shifts until he’s rubbing against Dean’s cock on every stroke. Sam feels that delicious electric shiver begin to spread throughout his chest, so he grips his brother’s shaft, stripping his dick until Dean is coming with a shout just as every single muscle in Sam’s body clenches at once. He buckles over Dean, gasping into his shoulder, and waits for his breathing to return to a normal rate. His brother’s arms stay draped around his back.

Dean rounds his lips into an ‘o’ and lets out a sharp exhale. “Y’know, I’m gonna pull out the cards more, if this is what it ends up leading to.”

Sam peels away from his brother and collapses onto his back beside him. “Yeah? If you really want to get me hot and bothered, you should try not leaving your socks in the sink.”

Dean snorts and brushes off Sam’s suggestion with a flap of his hand, then turns to clean himself off with the edge of the comforter. It’s just one more disgusting stain to add to the tableau already spattering the blanket, but Sam is pretty sure that Dean’s gonna make him sleep in the gross bed tonight. He accepts his impending fate with the unparalleled tolerance of a younger sibling, and silently vows to spill something unpleasant on the other bed if he gets a chance. Dean shifts like he’s about to get up, so Sam entwines their fingers and rests his head on his brother’s arm. Dean rolls his eyes at Sam’s clinginess, but doesn’t make another attempt to leave. 

It’s only after a couple minutes of _this_ (or whatever Dean likes to call it in order to pretend it’s not cuddling), that Sam is reminded of the fleeting thought that had bothered him earlier. He turns to rest his chin on Dean’s shoulder and waits until his brother glances at him. “Where’s your jacket?”

Dean groans and rolls his head back to remorsefully stare at the ceiling. “Left it at Lisa’s. It’s in a box in the garage, under the bag of croquet stuff.” 

Sam snorts. “Wait, you actually played croquet?” The thought of his surly, 6’1 brother gently swinging a tiny, purple mallet is ludicrously funny.

“Fuck off, Sam.” He snaps his foot out to kick at Sam’s ankle. “Lisa liked it, she thought it was classy. I _watched_.” 

Sam grins and jerks his feet out of the line of fire. “Oh, yeah. Sure. I’ll bet.” In response, Dean just reaches out and brutally pinches at Sam’s side until he surrenders out of fear for his bruised ribs and promises to let it go.  

They lie there for a few more moments before Sam says, “Hey, Dean. How did you know I wasn’t me?” Dean doesn’t answer, but at least he’s turned away from his perusal of the ceiling to look at him. “I mean, at first. How did you figure out that something was wrong?”

Dean lets out a melancholy sigh. “He didn’t feel right.”

Sam’s hand tightens around Dean’s. “We didn’t—” He jerks up to gape at his brother. “Please tell me we didn’t!”

“What? Jesus, _no_.” Dean tugs him back down onto the bed. “I didn’t fuck the ED-209. Calm down.” Sam quietly curls in on himself and Dean takes that as his cue to continue. “I just meant, he felt… _weird_. Like, he’d say stuff that you would say, but it would feel creepy. Or hollow, I don’t know.” He untangles his hand from Sam’s and rubs at his knuckles. “I guess it was the whole ‘no emotion’ thing. He’d say something like, ‘You’re my brother’ and I just…wouldn’t believe him.” Sam is still quiet, so Dean shifts onto his side and turns Sam’s face until their eyes meet. His expression is sincere, serious as it gets. Nine of Clubs. Dean is about to tell him the truth. “Honestly, Sam? He made my skin crawl. Just being in the same room with him.” His lips twitch and he stares at a spot just to the left of Sam’s eyes. “And that’s not the way I usually feel when you’re around. Okay?”

Sam wants to kiss his brother again, but that might be pushing it. So instead, he just nods and quietly says, “Okay.” 

“Good. Can we forget about it now?”

Sam chuckles at his brother’s limited emotional scope and pulls away to roll onto his back. “Hey, Dean?”

“Oh my god. What?”

“You know when we were playing before?” Dean grunts an affirmative, maybe hoping that if he uses less words, Sam will take the hint. No chance. “You know that straight was a complete stroke of luck, right? I shouldn’t have stayed in. It was a bad gamble.”

Dean stretches into a contented smile. “Well, you gotta remember what I told you earlier, Sammy.”

“What? You gotta chase what you want?”

“…I’m here, ain’t I?”

Sam pauses for a moment, and then bursts out laughing. He reaches out to shove a pillow over his brother’s face. “Oh my god! I can’t believe you just said that! That is the sappiest thing I’ve ever heard.” He lifts the pillow just enough that he can meet Dean’s eyes. “Who are you and what have you done with Dean Winchester?” 

Dean growls and flips them both over, then hurls the pillow off the bed. “Shut up, bitch. You love it.”

Sam looks at his brother poised above him, eyes gleaming like freshly-cut grass under thick, soot lashes. His lips are swollen, even fuller than usual, and it’s an alluring juxtaposition against his sharp jawline. Dean is older, and Sam’s not just talking about the year they spent apart. He’s more mature after Lisa, more grown-up, and it’s as enticing as it is upsetting. This is a bad gamble. Terrible, really. Textbook bad. It’s just about the stupidest thing they both can do. And it’s been proven to them time and time again. But Sam thinks _brother_. And Sam thinks _all-in_. And Dean’s eyes are crinkling at the corners. Ace of Spades. 

Sam smiles. “Yeah. I do.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Motorhead's "Ace of Spades"


End file.
